


The Taming of the Wolf

by October_rust



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ASoIaF, ASoIaF Kink Meme, F/M, Femdom, Slavery, dark au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-20
Updated: 2011-05-20
Packaged: 2017-10-19 15:17:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/October_rust/pseuds/October_rust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written in response to the following prompt at asoiaf kinkmeme: "A different outcome of Ned's trial. A look-alike has been executed in place of the King's Hand (any other explanation as to why/how Ned has saved his head is also welcome). Some time later, a stripped and bound Lord Stark regains consciousness in the Queen's bedchamber to find said Queen watching him with a hungry gleam in her eye . . . ."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Taming of the Wolf

In Cersei's opinion, most men are no different from two-legged animals, governed as they are by the drive to rut, possess, and kill. Foolish cows, similar to the Stark girl or lady Tanda, may view this dangerous instinct as the confirmation of masculine superiority, and bow in fear. What such pathetic women fail to understand, however, is that it is a double-edged sword. Therein, amidst the dreams of blood, gold and sex, lies the greatest weakness of men, which a talented player may ruthlessly exploit to her advantage.

Cersei is the true heir to Tywin Lannister and thus prides herself on being nothing like the empty-headed hens that populate the court. The prospect of male censure or violence, lest she stray from the path of feminine propriety, has never been enough to browbeat her into submission. Oh, she can don the disguise of a coy lady, but underneath this demure mask she is the lioness of Casterly Rock. _No, I am the Lannister lion: majestic, cunning and strong. Father surely sees how like to him I am._ Had it not been for her expert knowledge of the base nature of men, the masterful stratagem that has the whole realm under the absolute rule of House Lannister would never have materialized.

 _Few mediocre couplings, sweet lies, a flagon of wine, and Robert is no more. Pity you did not beget any legitimate sons, my lord husband, may you rot in hell._ The last one is her ultimate triumph, secret though it need remain: her womb, the part of her body men have always sought to control and use in accordance with their grand schemes, belongs only to herself. Unfortunately, her first-born, King Joffrey, sometimes brushes off her guiding hand. Almost twelve months ago, due to Joff's youthful wilfulness, the Kingdoms came perilously close to a catastrophe. It might well have ended with a civil war, had Joffrey, after too many cups of wine during a late night supper, not revealed his plans for having Ned Stark's head on a pike. She scolded him, of course, and expressly forbade any such gory wishes. Not that Cersei can truly blame Joffrey. She understands her precious son, for she also hungers for the blood of the traitorous wolves.

For now, however, there exists an uneasy truce between King's Landing and Winterfell. Left with no choice, Robb Stark, along with the minor Houses of the north, pledged his allegiance to the Iron Throne. Cersei found the proud boy amusing: during the ceremony, his jaw was so stiff it seemed a miracle he did not choke on the words of the oath. Since Sansa Stark's coronation as Joffrey's Queen, and Arya's betrothal to Tommen, sacred ties of blood have united Starks and Lannisters. _With luck, Joff's little bitch will breed soon._ The present stalemate is not bad, but the child of the two powerful Houses would be another excellent leverage with which to pacify the northern beasts and secure their loyalty in fighting the remnants of Stannis's and Renly's forces.

 _A leverage._ Which brings her to the present task and the man awaiting her in the extravagant chamber. _Not a chamber,_ Cersei amends as she pauses at a threshold to inspect the stone walls. _Luxuriously furnished, but this does not change the fact that it is a dungeon._ Maegor the Cruel, as it turns out, was equally merciless in his dealings with enemies and lovers. _Who knows, maybe to his mind they were one and the same?_

Lit with dozens of tall candles, the room appears very spacious. The impression is further strengthened by its pentagonal shape and the numerous mirrors that occupy every corner available. The soft glow reflects off the silvery surfaces, the shadows alternately engulfing and exposing what lies within. A large-four poster bed in the centre, the counterpane a rich crimson, is undoubtedly the dominant element. As Cersei's eyes adjust to the flickering light, she starts noticing other paraphernalia.

Manacles, hooks, a pair of pincers, knives of various size, and a whip.

Her gaze lingers for a moment to turn towards the man, who is her honoured guest in this little universe of pleasure and pain.

“Lord Eddard Stark.”

Cersei does not even attempt to mask the triumphant note in her voice.

Clad only in a pair of breeches, his hands bound behind his back and chained to the wall, a blindfold covering his eyes, the lord Stark stands undaunted, as if ready to do battle.

He inclines his head in greeting.

“Lady Lannister.”

The show of civility is exactly that: a masquerade. Inwardly, Cersei is certain, the wolf despises her. _So I am not your Queen any longer? Very well._ All the apprehension she has felt earlier about arranging her first 'meeting' with Eddard Stark in Maegor's secret chamber evaporates. What is left in its wake is a cold, overpowering anger.

She saunters inside, never taking her eyes off the half-naked man. The lord's nostrils flare as he picks up the scent of her perfume, but otherwise he is akin to a kingly statue: dignity and strength immortalized in stone.

 _Even the finest sculpture will eventually crumble into dust._ Cersei takes her time to study the luminescence-gilded skin, the width of shoulders, the planes of muscle and sinew. Not an ounce of fat to be seen, Stark's body is a testament to the hard life spent on the battlefields and in the wilds of the north. _He is nothing like that swine, Robert. Still, he cannot compare to Jaime._

Her dashing, golden Jaime … A brief pang of guilt assails her, yet a memory resurfaces: she and Jaime together, the sheets tangled around them, as they bask in the afterglow of their lovemaking. Though spent, her brother is still inside her, content to lie in her arms. Laughingly, she mentions something about lord Stark. The remark provokes a most interesting reaction: Jaime tenses, his green eyes both hungry and full of hatred. The change in the atmosphere is so abrupt, she reaches for him, frightened, in a vain attempt to soothe his rage. Then she feels him grow hard again, and he grabs her hips. It is lord Stark's name he growls at the pinnacle of his pleasure, sinking his teeth in her shoulder.

Were he to learn about her visiting Eddard Stark, Jaime would, undoubtedly, seethe with jealousy. Nonetheless, Cersei is confident she will be able to talk her brother into joining her here one day, once she's got past his scandalized denial. Jaime is too similar to her in every aspect, save astuteness. In fact, it is his impulsiveness that she adores most about him.

 _What would lord Stark say about such an arrangement?_ She licks her lips, finding the prospect of the confrontation between the lion and the wolf both titillating and entertaining. _But this is still in the future. Enough of temporizing._ First, the traitor must be taken down a peg or two.

“It seems the Crown has been very neglectful in catering to your needs, my lord Stark,” Cersei's dulcet whisper is filled with motherly concern. “After all, you are the father of our beloved Queen, and thus should be treated with utmost respect.”

The wolf does not disappoint her, electing to make honour and courtesy his sword and shield.

“My lady is too gracious. I am but a simple northman, and I'm afraid the grandeur of the southern pastimes will only be wasted on me.”

The mockery is there as well, buried underneath the chilly politeness. Cersei's fingers close around the handle of the whip. The weight is unfamiliar, but not unpleasant, as she swings it experimentally.

“As your hostess, I insist. Let me be your guide, lord Stark, and show you the wonders of the Lannister hospitality.”

The opening crack is a brutal finale to their exchange. Even though there is a sharp intake of breath, no other reaction is to be wrenched from Ned Stark. _Keep your silence, my lord. I can be patient._ Since all the pain and humiliation remain well hidden, Cersei has to content herself with leaving her marks on the wolf. She is not the first to do so, obviously, and soon a criss-cross pattern of welts and old scars decorates his torso.

 _The wretched man is too quiet!_ Incensed at Stark's stubbornness, she hurls the whip across the room. Some mysterious heating mechanism must be concealed within the walls, because both she and the traitor are drenched in sweat. Truth be told, Cersei feels a fever spreading. If that is not the case, why is her heart beating wildly and her head spinning?

The mirrors multiply the scene, and she quickly averts her gaze from the proliferation of the disturbingly erotic images: a bound man, handsome and cold, at the mercy of a beautiful woman with golden locks spilling down her back.

 _Lovers? You could have had me, you sanctimonious prig!_ She laughed at it later, mostly to salvage her bruised pride. Still, his rejection has gradually turned into a festering wound, impossible to heal. It hurt worse than the blow of Robert's fist. Men have always been vying for her favour, while lord Stark dismissed the Queen as if she were the most repulsive whore.

Stark's shoulders tighten afresh at the rasp of a knife being unsheathed. When she presses naked steel against the warm skin, a surprised gasp escapes his lips. The blade is moving lower, caressing the navel, following the narrow path of hair to stop at the waistband.

“What is it that you want, woman?”

They are done with courtly charades. Good.

“You.”

Cersei tastes the crimson liquid off the knife, and the blood of the wolf is more potent than the most superior wine. Savouring the flavour, she muses aloud, “I have often wondered about yourself and my husband. You were ever so eager to get on your knees for him . . . Now, your Queen requires the same service.”

A staunch defence of his friendship with Robert is cut short by the pull on the chain that well nigh sends lord Stark sprawling. Cersei uses this moment of distraction to disrobe, her dress sliding off her curves with a soft rustle. Naked, she seizes a fistful of Stark's hair.

Initially, he fights her, so she gives a warning tug and hisses, “Would you rather have your precious Sansa attend to me? I'm sure I can persuade Jaime to deflower the younger bitch.”

Although he cannot be bribed with gold, sex or power, Ned Stark is no different from the rest of men. His one weakness is honour, and that is enough for Cersei to sink her claws in the wolf's soul.

The movements of his tongue are hesitant, betraying inexperience with the act. Yet she grows wetter, enjoying the prickle of his beard against her thighs. _A fast learner, who would have suspected ..._ Cersei wonders whether that paragon of feminine virtues, the vapid lady Stark, has ever dared to taste her husband's mouth in such a manner.

An accidental lick forces an astonished cry from her throat. The pleasure is so intense she collapses on the floor, one hand clutching at his shoulder for purchase, the other almost lovingly cradling his head to her abdomen. It takes her a while to recover, and when she does, Cersei's eyes widen at a sight rarer than a dragon in Westeros: the northern wolf is hard for her.

“Why, my lord, you are human after all!”

She is warm and in a charitable mood. _My pet should get a reward for his performance._ Having freed him from the chains, Cersei leads Stark to the bed. There, she gently pushes him down to straddle his hips. A little fumbling with the laces to get him inside her, and she sighs at the sensation of being filled. _It is good. Oh, so good … Almost like with Jaime …_ Cersei is glad Stark does not protest, shame and fear for his daughters keeping him in thrall. As she rides him, all the mirrors reflect the same beautiful and terrifying image: the golden Queen conquering the wild beast of Winterfell.

“Yes!”

Her shout of ecstasy is echoing across the chamber.

Once she is sufficiently rested, Cersei rises to pull on the discarded dress. The lord's face is turned away from her, the tendons taut in his neck. Suddenly, Cersei is very grateful for the blindfold. Were it removed, she is certain his grey eyes would not shine with anger. Nay, they would hold the same pity and compassion they did on the day he touched her bruised cheek.

Cersei shivers at the thought.


End file.
